"Mirror Mirror" by Helen ´Fallyn Raine´ Falls

The stars twinkled coldly in the indigo sky, peering through the spirals of dark cloud like the eyes of the dead. A cruel wind was blowing from the north, bringing with it a bitter chill that bit painfully at the skin. Michael D’Angelus shivered, wrapping his arms about his slight frame as he stared up into the caring sky. A single tear falling from his light blue eyes to trace his pale skin.

There had been a time when he had believed in starlight wishes, but he was older now. He knew there was no such things as dreams come true, only nightmares that could stalk even the sunlit hours. No stardust could protect a soul from the dark.

She was calling him again, he could feel her, like the ice cold fingers of the drowned sliding up his spine. She wanted him to come to her, to leave his study and cross the courtyard to her tower, to unlock the heavy door with the delicate golden key he wore at his throat, to climb the crumbling stairs and enter her room of broken dreams and wasted wishes.

He tried to ignore her, but still his eyes were drawn to her window. She was standing there, silhouetted against the light of a single lamp. Even from this distance, he could feel the intensity of her gaze scorching him like a hot iron to his temple. He looked away, his silky brown hair falling across his face like a curtain to hide him from her.

‘Not tonight.’ He begged silently. ‘Please, not tonight.’

But begging never did have any sway over her. She beckoned to him, the white of her skin shining in the dark, he imagined he could even see the smile on her rosebud lips, she knew he would come as she wanted, he always did as she wanted.

Michael left the balcony and re-entered the warmth of his study. The fire crackled cheerily in welcome, inviting him to sit at its hearth and chase the chill from his bones, to lift one of his many books and lose himself in its pages, to stay in the safety of the flames glow until the sun once more returned to the sky and she slept once more. But that would do him no good, for she called even in her sleep.

The golden key turned to ice against his heart, and he clutched at it, feeling at the same time her summons. Trembling, he threw his velvet cloak around his shoulders and obeyed her, leaving behind the security of his room for the shadowed corridor beyond.

It was late, past midnight at least. In his living quarters down the hall Michael knew his adopted brother Raphael would be safely in dreams. After his visit, perhaps she would give him peace until morning, perhaps she would once more let him dream a dream not of her making.

It began to rain heavily as he crossed the courtyard to the foot of the tower, plastering his hair to his face and soaking through his clothes to the skin. He hurried to the door, inserting the key into the concealed lock with hands that shook. The angel statue that adorned the fountain seemed to glare at him, stone eyes menacing, outstretched hands becoming misshapen claws that reached for him.

The key turned, and the tower door swung open, the creak of the hinges sending his heart rate from a jog to an all out sprint. He stepped inside, then hesitated, looking up the darkened spiral staircase that would lead him to her. He wanted to turn and run back to the main building, to wake Raphael, he would make everything better…

The door behind him slammed shut, locking with a click like a gun shot in the dark. Michael let out a small cry of alarm, holding the key so tightly that it cut into his palm. His eyes wide, trying to see through the dark that had settled around him.

“Here comes a candle to light you to bed.” Her whisper came from behind him, a childish sing-song tone that raised goose bumps on his flesh. A candle hidden in an alcove in the wall suddenly burst into flame, and he seized it, spinning to face the direction of the voice, even though he knew she could not be there.

There was nothing but the locked door, Michael turned back to gaze up the staircase, his breath coming out like a sob. Her laughter echoed off the stone walls, and he began to climb towards the sound, for he knew she would not let him leave until after he had seen her.

The candle cast twisted shadows before him, demons that danced and twisted before his eyes, becoming real at the very edge of his perception, trying to snatch his feet from under him and send him tumbling down the hard stone stairs to his death. To join her in her cold grave.

He reached the door to her room and grasped the golden handle, but he need not have bothered, for the door creaked open even as he made to turn it. The room beyond was lit only by the light that came from the window and the pathetic glow of his candle. The bedroom of a young girl, the shelves lined with china dolls and stuffed animals, their glass eyes seeming to follow him and he stepped further inside.

The bed was trimmed in pale pink satin, its lace curtains, held back with silk bows. There was a thick film of dust over the furniture an belongs, it had been months since his last visit. The room appeared totally deserted, but she was here somewhere, she was always here. Michael set his candle down on the mirrored dresser and looked around nervously. “Marenda?” He whispered.

The silence in the room only seemed to deepen, he could feel her though, lurking, perhaps just beyond the glow of his candle. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow as he tried to still his thundering of his heart. There was nothing to fear, it would hurt her feelings to know he was afraid, and if he hurt her feelings she would get angry.

“Marenda…?” He said again, hating the tremble in his voice.

A soft rustle of skirts sweeping across the marble floor, the gentle sigh of her breath on the back of his neck. He turned slowly towards the mirror that stood against the far wall. It shone silver in the gloom, its glass surface unmarked by the dust that blanketed everything else. The carved golden frame seemed as welcoming as the fire in his study.

Michael did not remember taking the steps across the room to the mirror, but suddenly he was standing before it, staring into his own frightened eyes, his face was flushed, wet strands of hair still plastered to his cheeks.

Then very slowly, his reflection began to change; the features becoming slightly more delicate, the lips fuller, the skin lightening from simply pale to the colour of porcelain, the expression one of anger rather than fear, and finally the sapphire of his eyes becoming violet grey, the softness and warmth in them draining to become hard and cold as chips of ice.

“Marenda.” He heard himself say, as he stared into the face of his twin. He remembered the first time his mother had made him come to this room, the room of his stillborn sister, who should have lived instead of him. The room where her dead spirit lingered, growing as he grew, growing with the power of all her bitterness and hate.

“Brother.” Her voice was like dead leaves in a winter wind. “Brother dearest. Lend me what I lack, let me feel, let me live.”

The words were familiar, so familiar, filling his heart with sickening dread. He knew what she wanted, what she always wanted. For him to swap places with her for a short time, so that she might use his body to experience life.

His mother had said it was only right, after all they were twins, siblings should always share everything with each other. He remembered the darkest hours of his childhood, trapped behind the mirror, watching as his mother and Marenda played. Watching his own body move under her control, seeing his face with her cold eyes.

He started to shake his head, fear pulsing inside him like a second heartbeat, but then she spoke again.

“Grant me a few minutes brother, and I shall never ask again. This will be the last time I shall call to you, the very last time.”

Michael hesitated, to be free of her forever, to never again fall asleep to her mournful voice calling his name, to never again have to take the shadowy trip to up the stone steps to the tower room, to be rid of the secret key that hung around his neck like a stone.

He reached out to touch the cool glass, Marenda did the same in the reflection, and for a second he felt her palm against his and a shiver of revulsion went through him. Then the familiar wrenching pain, and he was within the mirror looking out at himself.

Marenda smiled with his body’s lips, and he watched her walk to the desk, a lift the lid of the musical box, the mournful tinkling tune plucking at the silence.

Michael kept both hands pressed to the glass, his eyes on the real world. He did not dare look back at the world of crystalline darkness behind. Who knew what might lurk in such a place. Still, she would return his body soon, and if she never called him again perhaps it meant she would be at peace. Perhaps then he could allow himself to love and mourn for her, the sister who should have walked beside him through life, but was nothing but a source of fear to him. Perhaps…

“Oh yes, brother dear, this is the very last time I shall ask this of you.”

He looked up, terror flooding through him as he saw the chair in her hands and knew what she would do.

“No!” He cried in panic as she swung the chair towards the glass, then the world exploded, raining down in a flood of pain and shattered fragments.

Marenda set the chair down, her violet grey eyes on the remnants of her prison. The frame of the mirror stared at her like a blinded eye, blood weeping from the shining remains like tears.

“Goodbye brother.” She whispered, then she turned, long hair whirling about her and left the room of nightmares, into the sleeping world beyond.